


Glitch in the System: A Guest

by SystemGlitch



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Cats, F/F, Pets, meow meow motherfucker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 20:29:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11997387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SystemGlitch/pseuds/SystemGlitch
Summary: By K.Widowmaker does some restless cardio.A cat happens.Sombra is exceptionally persistent about keeping it.Spoiler alert: they keep it.





	Glitch in the System: A Guest

Autumn descended on Talon’s Venetian outpost like the leaves which heralded it, lazy and uncharacteristically calm. Summer’s slow death and the chaos sown in its final throes gave way in increments to inertia; with every passing day, Talon’s deployments grew fewer and farther between as Akande Ogundimu, fresh from his prison break, set his sights on the new year and the work to be done therein. Between his meticulous planning and the tight-lipped response from the rest of the Council regarding the sudden passing of Councilman Vialli, the organization’s rank and file found themselves suddenly devoid of objectives.

Lesser operatives took to the dearth of work with relief or abandon, availing themselves of old Italy’s attractions while the opportunity - a rare one, indeed - presented itself. Widowmaker, however, was no lesser operative.

She indulged once, twice: an evening stroll along the coast, an art museum; yet what fleeting interest she was able to manifest in these altogether brief flights of fancy always and without fail gave way to the familiar, instinctual restlessness which underscored the minutiae of her days. Few things, most of them far from above board, assuaged that innate disinterest comprising the framework of her existence. Those distractions which were permissible beyond the constraints of a given mission were rooted almost exclusively in physical exertion and the adrenaline rush it offered. Reading, sometimes, but even her interest in that reliably eroded after any prolonged endeavors. More often than not, she returned to basic training: sprinting, acrobatics, stealth exercises - areas of expertise in which she excelled, but always found room to be better, if not the best. At the very least, it distracted from the question which buzzed, gnatlike, about the periphery of her thoughts with troubling constancy: why was life, for her, defined by her work while others seemed perfectly capable of thriving beyond it?

“Lacroix!”

Widowmaker averted gold eyes from the atrium path ahead of her, glancing only momentarily to the balcony overlooking the gardens. It was a perfunctory reaction, rooted in sheer instinct and utterly unnecessary; the deliberate, over-emphatic aspiration given her last name betrayed Sombra’s trademark irreverence immediately. She ignored the interruption as easily as she identified it, returning her gaze to the thin dirt path and the ghost of her own footsteps where she’d been jogging for the better part of an hour.

“Got something to show you,” the other woman continued. “Secret.”

The assassin kept running, breezing past the balcony wordlessly and keeping time with the metronomic sound of her own, relentlessly steady heartbeat in her ears. She could hear Sombra, of course, could hear the conspiratorial glibness that was the hallmark of her speech, but knew better than to pursue whatever bait the hacker threw at her feet; if it wasn’t the means to an end, it was the setup to a punchline.

“Come on,” Sombra whined in a mock plea, descending the stairs to the garden two, then three at a time. “It’s a  _good_  secret.”

The taller woman rolled her eyes as she came to a gradual stop, turning to her colleague approaching from across the garden. “The last time you wanted to share a secret with me-“

“It’s not porn,” Sombra interrupted, dismissing Widowmaker’s suspicion with a wave of her hand. “Not this time, anyway. Promise.”

Eyeing Sombra with pointed scrutiny, the sniper pursed her lips as she tried and failed to will an excuse into existence.  She could just brush her off - it would be far from the first time she’d done so - but the other woman’s insistence betrayed a modicum of excitement that was, if nothing else, intriguing.

“Fine.”

If she were to ascribe a singular tactical advantage to Talon’s Venetian estate, it would be its sheer expansiveness. Truthfully, Widowmaker had neither known nor particularly cared where Sombra established herself amongst its myriad rooms; as such, discovering she’d chosen a corner suite along the far edge of the outpost’s westernmost wing was only noteworthy in its proximity to her own - only a few, elegant hallways removed, in fact. That their paths rarely crossed in the smaller hours of the night was curious, but a thought easily dismissed.

As Sombra slid from the dusk-darkened hallway into the neon purple glow of the dimly-lit room beyond, her colleague lingered in the doorway, arms folded and eyes narrowed with the same, persistent suspicion. The hacker preempted her before she could even open her mouth to speak. “It’s not porn, okay? Just because you invite a pretty lady to your place to show her a secret-” she trailed off, kneeling at the far side of the bed and reaching for something beneath the mattress with obvious difficulty. Widowmaker considered moving to assist precisely as she reappeared over the edge of the bed cradling a small, black bundle in her arms.

It purred.

“Got us a friend,” Sombra grinned.

Widowmaker sighed, punctuating her immediate irritation by pinching the bridge of her nose with two pale blue fingers.

“You are kidding,” she muttered.

“Am not.”

“Gabriel hates cats,” the sniper hissed, refusing the kitten as the other woman offered it to her. “ _I_  hate cats.”

“You hate everything,” Sombra quipped. “Shut up and take it.”

The hacker left her little choice as she pressed the puny ball of fur into her arms, relinquishing it more quickly than she could reprise her refusal. Widowmaker considered, albeit briefly, the unimpressive modicum of force required to snap its neck or crush its windpipe, ending the other woman’s insipid whim with ease. Yet just as she conceived of it, she noticed that, agitation aside, this diminutive, four-legged surprise makes the first time in days she didn’t feel the nagging, hungry restlessness to which she was so accustomed. Inconvenience, yes - in leaps and bounds - but cagey? Not quite.

Strange.

“Cute, right?” the dark-haired spy asked, eyebrows canted. “Couldn’t think of a name, though. Thoughts?”

“ _Chat_ ,” Widowmaker replied glibly.

“You can’t just call it ‘Cat’, Lacroix.  _Je parle Français, lo tengo?_ Romance languages and shit. Try harder.”

The assassin clucked her tongue, shrugging with marked disinterest in the challenge set before her. “I don’t know,” she groaned, grimacing as the kitten stretched to place petite, white-tipped paws against her shoulder and press its face beneath her jaw. “Please, take it back.”

“Not until you give me a name,” Sombra replied, crossing her arms in a perfect imitation of her colleague’s earlier posture.

“Toulouse,” Widowmaker grumbled against the cat’s face, lifting her chin to avoid its continued affection. The name came like an electric shock, unprompted and uninvited but undeniably there - an echo from another place and time which felt both strangely familiar and impassibly distant. “Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.  _Le Chat Noir_. His favorite cabaret.”

It was consistently perplexing, these bits of information from another life that filtered through at the strangest, most unpredictable moments - jarring, even, in the way they roused some inkling of  _something,_  an almost-sadness.

Sombra tilted her head to one side, studying the woman before her. She’d seen it before, these transient moments of confusion, but was never able to grasp its catalyst or implications. She knew the story, of course, had dragged it from Talon’s databases kicking and screaming; moments like this made her question whether their reprogramming was as steadfast as estimated.

“Not bad. I like it,” she chuckled, dismissing the thought as she slid deft fingers beneath the kitten’s stomach and removed it from Widowmaker’s grasp. “Toulouse. Classy.”

“I know.”

Silence settled between them as Sombra sat on the edge of the bed, pressing her face into the soft fur along the kitten’s stomach. A smile lingered at the corners of her lips when she returned her gaze to her colleague. “Always wanted a cat,” she grinned. “Saw this little guy and thought, ‘mine’.”

“Well, don’t tell Gabriel,” Widowmaker said, acquiescing only as she turned on her heel to leave. “And clean up after it.”

“Him.”

“ _Him_.”

“You’re going to help me, right?” Sombra asked, simultaneously coy and sincere.

“Help you with what?” Widowmaker asked, stopping mid-step to cast an incredulous glance over her shoulder.

“With the cat. With  _Toulouse_.”

“ _Absolutment pas.”_

Sombra frowned. “You don’t  _do_  anything, Lacroix,” she chided, and for a moment Widowmaker almost took her for sincere. “Just try.”

The assassin opened her mouth to retort, only to find the string of excuses that leapt to mind washed away by the uninvited brush of fur against her leg as the kitten circled her.

She sighed.

“Fine,” she said, curling thin fingers around the doorknob as she left. “But you’re doing the litter box.”


End file.
